All's Well That Ends (19 page)

Phoebe had been a scattered sort of person back when I hung around her household. She’d had many interests, none of which, except the genealogy, lasted long. Record-keeping had not been a strength back then, and it was already obvious that it still wasn’t.

The “M” on the calendar day she died had shown that people don’t change just because they buy a computer. Years ago, Phoebe left unintelligible notes for Sasha in what we’d come to call

“Phoebehand” because it so heavily relied on abbreviations and symbols of her own making, including small drawings that were cute but unrecognizable. She always showed up when she said 147

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she would, and was mystified when we couldn’t understand her messages.

Given that messages here had to be typed out, there were no cunning little people making strange gestures, no objects de-picted, no visual puns. But she’d adapted her quirky shorthand to the computer keyboard, and the abbreviations were still there, and still by and large unintelligible to anyone but, presumably, the deceased.

“So where’s the PDA?” Mackenzie asked. When he saw my puzzled expression, he said, “This program—it has a handheld part, too. You know. The little gizmo she’d carry with her in her purse.”

“Purse!”
I bent over and pawed through the cartons, in case I’d actually missed seeing something as significant as Phoebe’s bag.

I hadn’t. “Never got it,” I said. Given that most women I know, and certainly I myself, basically carry their lives and brains inside their handbags, I found this incredible, both on Sasha’s part and mine. I was sure the missing pocketbook hadn’t registered with either of us, and I thought of what would have been in it: money and credit cards, keys, makeup, calendars, address books, phones, receipts, photographs, pens, notebooks—very close to everything that might yield a clue as to what had happened to her. Who had taken it?

My back was to Mackenzie. “Feel free to have any derogatory thoughts you like,” I said. “You can even think words like ‘inept amateurs’—but please don’t say them. I’m saying them to myself.”

“I was not even thinkin’ them,” he said. He had to be lying.

I phoned Sasha. “Phoebe’s pocketbook is missing,” I said.

“Which one? The woman had a shoe and bag fetish. She had thirty bags at least.”

“The one she was using the night she died.”

“She wasn’t using any. She was in her own house.”

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“Sasha! The one currently in use. The one in which she kept her wallet and car keys!”

Silence. Then, finally, “That one. I’ve got it here at my house.

Why? Do you need it?” Her voice changed and sounded slightly abashed. “There didn’t seem to be anything particularly interesting in it, so I, well, I took it. It’s pretty great-looking, actually.

Some kind of lizard skin, dyed—”

“I don’t care. Keep it, but empty the contents into a paper bag and get them to me as soon as you can, okay?”

“I wish you had a safe drop-off.”

There are no doormen in lofts, and while the people in the store on the ground floor were nice enough, I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking Sasha to entrust them with something as important and possibly lucrative as Phoebe’s pocketbook.

“Tomorrow night?” she asked. “I’ve got this job I’m trying to finish, and I have a full day, at least, of editing and they want me to help design the layout of the photos and—”

“Okay, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed . . . How about if I come by after school? I’d be there by three-thirty.”

“Thanks for calling me a mountain,” she grumbled, but so it was agreed.

I returned to the table and the laptop.

“The handheld’s going to have the same information as this does,” C.K. said. “Might as well give a look right now.”

Together we began with the dates at the end of summer and proceeded through the calendar, a month at a time. The datebook showed predictable appointments, albeit in her idiosyncratic shorthand (e.g., “dst” in one place, “hrct” a few days later meant, I hoped, dentist and haircut, in turn). She seemed fond, now and then, of an unnamed treatment (“tmnt”) at “spa,”

though she didn’t show a location, so we switched to the electronic address book, but didn’t find anything under “Spa.”

Back to the calendar, where birthdays were both noted and decipherable because a number in parentheses was typed in next to the initial or initials. There were also many times when only a 149

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single initial appeared on a date with no mention of why it was there, let alone who it was. I saw “RaBng” one evening, and after a while, realized it was probably Ramona on the Bingo outing.

And another time, “t-hr” seemed to be the day the three neighbors were invited over for tea, either “here” or for an “hour.”

Maybe both. But unless I already knew about the date, I could make no sense of her notations.

Depressing, daunting, and a waste of time.

However, I did now have the advantage, such as it was, of being able to consider the address book component of the calendar along with the datebook, so we could look at a split screen.

I felt a surge of guilt at wasting Mackenzie’s time this way. I could compare notations with names on my own and let him get on with his actual work. “I could do this part myself,” I said.

“Though it wouldn’t be as enjoyable.”

“I find honesty very sexy.” He pulled his chair closer.

“Let’s start with the most logical, important-feeling date. The one the night she died. The ‘M.’ ‘Merilee’?”

“Could be,” he said, and wrote it down on a tablet I’d put next to the laptop. “That woman certainly had—or feels she had—reason to be furious with Phoebe. And the searching around would make sense. If she thinks Phoebe embezzled money, she could have been looking for evidence of that, or for the cash itself.”

I didn’t want to believe Phoebe would have stooped to stealing money from a business she owned, so I focused on the address book side of the screen. “Here, Max Delahunt. Another

‘M.’ He’s one of her exes. He was at the memorial service with his son Lee—Leon, no, Lion—so no ‘M’ there.”

“Could be a nickname, so nobody calls him ‘Junior.’ Add both of them to the list. And I see here a Sally M.”

“The neighbor I interviewed today. She’s got a little drinking problem. I’m not sure she could get her act together enough to poison somebody else. And Merilee’s husband is Marc. He’s furious with Phoebe about the business. ”

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He nodded.

“And the blind date was named Gregory McIntyre.”

Another nod and notation. “Here’s a plumber—Mahoney.”

“You think her plumber killed her?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he became more than a plumber to her. Remember the modus operandi for that one was moonlight and roses, far as I understood it. Fancy duds, a good bottle of wine. Check out the plumber.”

His name was added to the list along with a Susie Moskowitz,

“Moms” Whiting, Peter Morris, Morris Peters, Zach Masters,

“Moo-Moo” Bedderly, Alphonso “Mike” Carocci, and the mysteriously named “Mighty Joe.” And we were not through her address book by a long shot.

“Oh Lordy—there are those people in her online datebook, too. Wasn’t one ‘M’ and numbers?”

“HM47,” he said without needing to look at his notes.

I nodded my appreciation of his brain. “You are not just a pretty face,” I said. And I remembered one, too: “Miserable.

Thank goodness for the obnoxious-sounding ‘Sizzler’ for not using an ‘M’ name. And while we’re at it, you might as well add yourself to the list,” I grumbled.

“You think I killed Phoebe? Why is that?”

“I think your name’s Mackenzie, and you’re as likely to have offed her as most of the people on that list.”

“Except, of course, that I appear nowhere in her address book or datebook—or life. I’ve never met the woman, which makes me a little weak as a suspect. On the other hand, may I remind you that you are most often referred to as ‘Manda’? An’ you knew her.”

“Point taken, but all the same, this is nuts. What are we supposed to do? Spend the next few years interviewing Phoebe’s plumber and Mighty Joe whomever, not to mention Miserable and Max?”

“Well, I think you could use a little bit of logic and begin with, say, Merilee. If nothing else, get a sense of where that whole 151

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business was and now is. Would Phoebe’s death help anything about the situation?”

“Not her death, but finding the supposedly embezzled funds might. Or even proving she’d done it might make Merilee think that would win her roving husband back. It wouldn’t, of course, but I’m only saying she could think it might.”

“It might explain tossing the house the second time, too.

First time, tidily going through and not finding what she was after. Then returning when she thinks nobody’s there. What do you think?”

“Wait a minute—I just remembered. Back in junior high, when she was married to Sasha’s dad, Phoebe called her son

‘M.L.M.’ It stood for ‘my little man,’ and back then it drove him crazy that she called him even that cryptic abbreviation, because of course people would ask what it meant. Sasha and I would taunt him with it at school, and whenever we felt like it. I remember because I can still see him shouting, ‘My name is Dennis!,’ his face all red. I guess we were pretty mean, but that was long ago. He’s got to have grown out of going ballistic about something like that.”

“Probably. But mothers might cling to a pet name like that, and use it as private shorthand for a date with the offspring.”

Mackenzie wrote “Dennis” and then underlined the name.

“That’s quite a list,” he said. “You’d think a person’s circle of acquaintances would be spread more equitably over the alphabet.

Not that I’ve ever analyzed address books that way before.

“Or have we wandered into some strange geographical slice where everybody needs an ‘M’ in their name?” C.K.M. himself asked. “Do you ever wonder who’d be on our list of likely suspects if, say, we were found dead the way Phoebe was?”

Mackenzie’s expression was serious, despite the light in those knock-down blue eyes. “No,” I said, and I intended to leave it at that, I wanted to leave it at that, but I felt the words I wasn’t going to say filling up the airspace. “That question ranks as the creepiest thing you’ve ever suggested,” I said. “Why would I won-GILLIAN ROBERTS

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der who among my acquaintances or friends might have a motive for killing me? And thanks for being so diplomatic as to suggest both of us were offed, so that you wouldn’t be topping the list of suspects. Why did you ask? Do you know who’d be on your list?

Tell me, so I can tell the cops when they ask, you know, instead of saying the usual ‘He had no enemies.’ ”

He shrugged. “It’s the kind of thing people like me have thought about. I spent years asking that question after a homicide and nobody ever could think of anybody who’d want the victim dead, as evident as it was that somebody definitely had.

Besides, there are a few people currently locked up who might have it in for me. But then, I wouldn’t have them listed in my address book, and I wouldn’t be setting out wine and cheese for them.”

“There was only one glass. Hers.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?”

“She wasn’t setting out wine for anybody else. Or her caller was a teetotaler.”

“What does it mean or matter if there was only one wineglass by the time Sasha arrived? Is there anybody left alive who has not seen a single TV crime show, read a single mystery? Somebody who wouldn’t know to wash and dry his glass? Or just stick it in his pocket and take it with him? Apparently, there was no rush.

He—”

“Or she! It was a feminine sort of murder, don’t you think?

Drugs in your wine?”

“Maybe. But let’s focus on Phoebe for a moment,” he suggested.

I nodded as he continued, “Unless she or he listened to the answering machine, to Sasha’s phone calls while she was en route, he—or she—wouldn’t know anybody else was going to show up.

So there would be a sense that there was time to wash up, erase all traces, and leave. And, in fact, there was.”

“Then, can we assume it was somebody Phoebe would welcome with wine and nibbles?” I asked.

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“Was she much of a cook or hostess?”

“Yes. It was part of her grand style, what some might call pretentiousness. She’d go all out with puff pastry and clarified butter and pâté and work in the kitchen all day long. Once or twice, she hired Sasha and me to pass around the platters, and people
ooh
ed and
aah
ed. In junior high, I wasn’t overly interested in cocktail party food, though I dearly wanted to get into the cocktails, and hated it that Phoebe policed us even while hostessing. She was worse than my parents about that. And now can I ask you why this matters?”

“Don’t know that it does, but the fact is, she had set out pretty mundane things. Smoked almonds and packaged cookies.

Kind of a weird combo, actually, and no preparation involved.

No imagination. No creativity. What would that mean in her worldview of entertaining?”

“That the visitor is . . . not Mr. Right? Or a first date, a tentative sort of thing. Nothing to scare him off, but also, no desire to lure him in through food. Not that night, anyway. Nobody she wanted to impress.”

C.K. considered something privately, then nodded. “Or it could be the neighbor. Doesn’t seem the most sophisticated of palates, so why bother?”

“Right. That would make sense. Cookies for her. Or it could be somebody she’s no longer sure of, like her partner in a failed business. Maybe she thought they might be able to reach a truce that night, so that would be a surprise, and a good one. But maybe she didn’t want to overcommit to that. Or show her hand, her hopes.”

“Or maybe it was her partner’s enraged husband. Nothing but trouble expected from him, so you meet only the minimum socially acceptable amount of munchies.”

This was fun, but I could still see the endless list of people with “M” in their names, and Phoebe’s death—and now Toy’s brutal murder—remained mysteries. “So where would I start?” I asked. “This list is intimidating.”